Shantaram: A Novel Read online

  I thought of Prabaker, and his promise to return early in the morning to begin my tours of the city. Will he come? I wondered. Or will I see him somewhere later in the day, walking with another newly arrived tourist’? I decided, with the faint, impersonal callousness of the lonely, that if he were as good as his word, and turned up in the morning, I would begin to like him.

  I thought of the woman, Karla, again and again, surprised that her composed, unsmiling face intruded so often. If you go to Leopold’s, some time, maybe you’ll find out. That was the last thing she’d said to me. I didn’t know if it was an invitation, a challenge, or a warning. Whatever it was, I meant to take her up on it. I meant to go there, and look for her. But not yet. Not until I’d learned a little more about the city she seemed to know so well. I’ll give it a week, I thought. A week in the city …

  And beyond those reflections, as always, in fixed orbits around the cold sphere of my solitude, were thoughts of my family and my friends. Endless. Unreachable. Every night was twisted around the unquenchable longing of what my freedom had cost me, and all that was lost. Every night was pierced by the spike of shame for what my freedom continued to cost them, the loved ones I was sure I would never see again.

  ‘We could’a beat him down, you know,’ the tall Canadian said from his dark corner on the far side of the room, his sudden voice in the whirring silence sounding like stones thrown on a metal roof. ‘We could’a beat that manager down on the price of this room. It’s costin’ us six bucks for the day. We could’a beat him down to four. It’s not a lotta money, but it’s the way they do things here. You gotta beat these guys down, and barter for everything. We’re leavin’ tomorrow for Delhi, but you’re stayin’ here. We talked about it before, when you were out, and we’re kinda worried about you. You gotta beat ‘em down, man. If you don’t learn that, if you don’t start thinkin’ like that, they’re gonna fuck you over, these people. The Indians in the cities are real mercenary, man. It’s a great country, don’t get me wrong. That’s why we come back here. But they’re different than us. They’re … hell, they just expect it, that’s all. You gotta beat ‘em down.’

  He was right about the price of the room, of course. We could’ve saved a dollar or two per day. And haggling is the economical thing to do. Most of the time, it’s the shrewd and amiable way to conduct your business in India.

  But he was wrong, too. The manager, Anand, and I became good friends, in the years that followed. The fact that I trusted him on sight and didn’t haggle, on that first day, that I didn’t try to make a buck out of him, that I worked on an instinct that respected him and was prepared to like him, endeared me to him. He told me so, more than once. He knew, as we did, that six of our dollars wasn’t an extravagant price for three foreign men to pay. The owners of the hotel received four dollars per day per room. That was their base line. The dollar or two above that minimum was all Anand and his staff of three room boys shared as their daily wage. The little victories haggled from him by foreign tourists cost Anand his daily bread, and cost them the chance to know him as a friend.

  The simple and astonishing truth about India and Indian people is that when you go there, and deal with them, your heart always guides you more wisely than your head. There’s nowhere else in the world where that’s quite so true.

  I didn’t know that then, as I closed my eyes in the dark and breathing silence on that first night in Bombay. I was running on instinct, and pushing my luck. I didn’t know that I’d already given my heart to the woman, and the city. And knowing none of it, I fell, before the smile faded from my lips, into a dreamless, gentle sleep.

  CHAPTER TWO

  SHE WALKED INTO LEOPOLD’S at the usual time, and when she stopped at a table near me to talk with friends, I tried once more to find the words for the foliant blaze of her green eyes. I thought of leaves and opals and the warm shallows of island seas. But the living emerald in Karla’s eyes, made luminous by the sunflowers of gold light that surrounded the pupils, was softer, far softer. I did eventually find that colour, the green in nature that was a perfect match for the green in her lovely eyes, but it wasn’t until long months after that night in Leopold’s. And strangely, inexplicably, I didn’t tell her about it. I wish now with all my heart that I did. The past reflects eternally between two mirrors—the bright mirror of words and deeds, and the dark one, full of things we didn’t do or say. I wish now that from the beginning, even then in the first weeks that I knew her, even on that night, the words had come to tell her … to tell her that I liked her.

  And I did—I liked everything about her. I liked the Helvetian music of her Swiss-American English, and the way she pushed her hair back slowly with a thumb and forefinger when she was irritated by something. I liked the hard-edged cleverness of her conversation, and the easy, gentle way she touched the people she liked when she walked past them or sat beside them. I liked the way she held my eyes until the precise moment when it stopped being comfortable, and then smiled, softening the assail, but never looked away.

  She looked the world in the eye and stared it down, and I liked that about her because I didn’t love the world then. The world wanted to kill me or catch me. The world wanted to put me back in the same cage I’d escaped from, where the good guys, the guys in prison-guard uniforms who got paid to do the right thing, had chained me to a wall and kicked me until they broke my bones. And maybe the world was right to want that. Maybe it was no worse than I deserved. But repression, they say, breeds resistance in some men, and I was resisting the world with every minute of my life.

  The world and I are not on speaking terms, Karla said to me once in those early months. The world keeps trying to win me back, she said, but it doesn’t work. I guess I’m just not the forgiving type. And I saw that in her, too, right from the start. I knew from the first minute how much like me she was. I knew the determination in her that was almost brutal, and the courage that was almost cruel, and the lonely, angry longing to be loved. I knew all that, but I didn’t say a word. I didn’t tell her how much I liked her. I was numb, in those first years after the escape: shell-shocked by the disasters that warred in my life. My heart moved through deep and silent water. No-one, and nothing, could really hurt me. No-one, and nothing, could make me very happy. I was tough, which is probably the saddest thing you can say about a man.

  ‘You’re becoming a regular here,’ she teased, ruffling my hair with one hand as she sat down at my table.

  I loved it when she did that: it meant that she’d read me accurately, that she was sure I wouldn’t take offence. I was thirty then—ugly, taller than average, with wide shoulders, a deep chest, and thick arms. People didn’t often ruffle my hair.

  ‘Yeah. I guess I am.’

  ‘So, you went around on tour with Prabaker again? How was it today?’

  ‘He took me to the island, Elephanta, to see the caves.’

  ‘A beautiful place,’ she remarked quietly, looking at me, but dreaming of something else. ‘If you get the chance, you should visit the Ajanta and Ellora caves, in the north of the state. I spent the night there, once, at Ajanta, in one of the caves. My boss took me there.’

  ‘Your boss?’

  ‘Yes, my boss.’

  ‘Is he European, your boss, or Indian?’

  ‘Neither one, actually.’

  ‘Tell me about him.’

  ‘Why?’ she asked with a direct, frowning stare.

  I was simply making conversation, trying to keep her near me, talking to me, and the sudden wariness that bristled in the single word of her question surprised me.

  ‘It’s no big deal,’ I replied, smiling. ‘I’m just curious about how people get work here, how they make a living, that’s all.’

  ‘Well, I met him five years ago, on a long-distance flight,’ she said, looking down at her hands and seeming to relax once more. ‘We both got on the plane at Zurich. I was on my way to Singapore, but by the time we got to Bombay he’d convinced me to get off the plane and work fo
r him. The trip to the caves was … something special. He arranged it, somehow, with the authorities, and I went up there with him, and spent the night in a big cave, full of stone sculptures of the Buddha, and a thousand chattering bats. I was safe. He had a bodyguard posted outside. But it was incredible. A fantastic experience. And it really helped me to … to put things in focus. Sometimes you break your heart in the right way, if you know what I mean.’

  I wasn’t sure what she meant; but when she paused, expecting a reply I nodded as if I did understand.

  ‘You learn something or you feel something completely new, when you break your heart that way,’ she said. ‘Something that only you can know or feel in that way. And I knew, after that night, I would never have that feeling anywhere but India. I knew—I can’t explain it, I just knew somehow—that I was home, and warm, and safe. And, well, I’m still here …’

  ‘What kind of business is he in?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Your boss—what does he do?’

  ‘Imports,’ she said. And exports.’

  She lapsed into silence, turning her head to scan the other tables.

  ‘Do you miss your home?’

  ‘My home?’

  ‘Yeah, I mean your other home. Don’t you ever get homesick for Switzerland?’

  ‘In a way, yes I do. I come from Basel—have you ever been there?’

  ‘No, I’ve never been to Europe.’

  ‘Well, you must go, and when you go there you must visit Basel. It’s really a very European city, you know? It’s divided by the river Rhine into Great Basel and Small Basel, and the two halves of the city have really different styles and attitudes, so it’s like living in two cities at the same time. That used to suit me once. And it’s right on the meeting place of three countries, so you can just walk across the border into Germany and France. You can have breakfast in France, you know, with coffee and baguettes, and lunch in Switzerland, and dinner in Germany, without leaving the city by more than a few kilometres. I miss Basel, more than I miss Switzerland.’

  She stopped, catching her breath, and looked up at me through soft, unpainted lashes.

  ‘Sorry, I’m giving you a geography lesson here.’

  ‘No, no, please go on. It’s interesting.’

  ‘You know,’ she said slowly, ‘I like you, Lin.’

  She stared that green fire into me. I felt myself reddening slightly, not from embarrassment, but from shame, that she’d said so easily the very words, I like you, that I wouldn’t let myself say to her.

  ‘You do?’ I asked, trying to make the question sound more casual than it was. I watched her lips close in a thin smile.

  ‘Yes. You’re a good listener. That’s dangerous, because it’s so hard to resist. Being listened to—really listened to—is the second-best thing in the world.’

  ‘What’s the first best thing?’

  ‘Everybody knows that. The best thing in the world is power.’

  ‘Oh, is it?’ I asked, laughing. ‘What about sex?’

  ‘No. Apart from the biology, sex is all about power. That’s why it’s such a rush.’

  I laughed again.

  ‘And what about love? A lot of people say that love is the best thing in the world, not power.’

  ‘They’re wrong,’ she said with terse finality. ‘Love is the opposite of power. That’s why we fear it so much.’

  ‘Karla, dear one, the things you say!’ Didier Levy said, joining us and taking a seat beside Karla. ‘I must make the conclusion that you have wicked intentions for our Lin.’

  ‘You didn’t hear a word we said,’ she chided.

  ‘I don’t have to hear you. I can see by the look on his face. You’ve been talking your riddles to him, and turning his head around. You forget, Karla, that I know you too well. Here, Lin, we’ll cure you at once!’

  He shouted to one of the red-jacketed waiters, calling the man by the number ‘4’ emblazoned on the breast pocket on his uniform. ‘Hey! Char number! Do battlee been What will you have, Karla? Coffee? Oh, char number! Ek coffee aur. Jaldi karo!’

  Didier Levy was only thirty-five years old, but those years were stitched to him in lumpy wads of flesh and deep lines that gave him the plump and careworn look of a much older man. In defiance of the humid climate, he always wore baggy canvas trousers, a denim shirt, and a rumpled, grey woollen sports coat. His thick, curly black hair never seemed to be shorter or longer than the line of his collar, just as the stubble on his tired face never seemed to be less than three days from its last shave. He spoke a lavishly accented English, using the language to provoke and criticise friend and stranger alike with an indolent malignity. There were people who resented his rudeness and rebukes, but they tolerated them because he was frequently useful and occasionally indispensable. He knew where everything—from a pistol, to a precious gem, to a kilo of the finest Thai-white heroin—might be bought or sold in the city. And, as he sometimes boasted, there was very little he wouldn’t do for the right amount of money, provided there was no significant risk to his comfort and personal safety.

  ‘We were talking of the different ideas people have about the best thing in the world,’ Karla said, ‘But I don’t have to ask what you think.’

  ‘You would say that I think money is the best thing in the world,’ he suggested lazily, ‘and we’d both be right. Every sane and rational person one day realises that money is almost everything. The great principles and the noble virtues are all very well, in the long run of history, but from one day to the next, it’s money that keeps us going—and the lack of it that drives us under the great wheel. And what about you, Lin? What did you say?’

  ‘He didn’t say anything yet, and now that you’re here, he won’t get a chance.’

  ‘Now be fair, Karla. Tell us, Lin. I would like to know.’

  ‘Well, if you press me, I’d have to say freedom.’

  ‘The freedom to do what?’ he asked, putting a little laugh in the last word.

  ‘I don’t know. Maybe just the freedom to say no. If you’ve got that much freedom, you really don’t need any more.’

  The beer and coffee arrived. The waiter slammed the drinks onto the table with reckless discourtesy. The service in the shops, hotels, and restaurants of Bombay, in those days, moved from a politeness that was charming or fawning to a rudeness that was either abrupt or hostile. The churlishness of Leopold’s waiters was legendary. It’s my favourite place in the whole world, Karla once said, to be treated like dirt.

  ‘A toast!’ Didier declared, raising his glass to touch mine. ‘To the freedom … to drink! Salut!’

  He drank half the long glass, let out a loud, wide-mouthed sigh of pleasure, and then drank the rest. He was pouring himself a second glass when two others, a man and a woman, joined our group, sitting between Karla and me. The dark, brooding, undernourished young man was Modena, a dour and taciturn Spaniard who did black-market business with French, Italian, and African tourists. His companion, a slim and pretty German prostitute named Ulla, had for some time allowed him to call himself her lover.

  ‘Ah, Modena, you are just in time to buy the next round,’ Didier shouted, reaching past Karla to slap him on the shoulder. ‘I will have a whisky and soda, if you please.’

  The shorter man flinched under the blow and scowled unhappily, but he called the waiter to his side, and ordered drinks. Ulla was speaking with Karla in a mixture of German and English that, by accident or intent, obscured the most interesting parts of her conversation.

  ‘How could I know it, na? How was it possible for me to know that he was a Spinner? Total verruckt, I tell you. At the start, he looked totally straight to me. Or, maybe, do you think that was a sign? Maybe he was a little bit too straight looking. Naja, ten minutes in the room and erwollte auf der Klamotten kommen. On my best dress! I had to fight with him to save my clothes, der Sprintficker! Spritzen wollte er, all over my clothes! Gibt’sja nicht. And later, when I went to the bathroom for a little sniff of cokes, I c
ame back to see daβ er seinen Schwanz ganz tief in einer meiner Schuhe hat! Can you believe it! In my shoe! Nicht zu fassen.’

  ‘Let’s face it,’ Karla said gently, ‘The crazy ones always know how to find you, Ulla.’

  ‘Ja, leider. What can I say? Crazy people love me.’

  ‘Don’t listen to her, Ulla my love,’ Didier consoled her. ‘Craziness is the basis of many a fine relationship. In fact, craziness is the basis of every fine relationship!’

  ‘Didier,’ Ulla sighed, mouthing his name with a smile of exquisite sweetness, ‘have I told you to get fucked yet?’

  ‘No!’ he laughed, ‘But I forgive you for the lapse. Between us, my darling, such things are always implied, and understood.’

  The whisky arrived, in four small flasks, and the waiter prised the tops off two soda bottles with a brass bottle opener that hung from a chain at his belt. He let the tops bounce on the table and fall to the floor, then swished a grimy rag over the wet surface of the table, forcing us to duck and weave as the moisture spilled in all directions.

  Two men approached our table from different parts of the restaurant, one to speak to Didier and the other with Modena. Ulla used the moment to lean close to me. Under the table she pressed something into my hand—it felt like a small roll of bank notes—and her eyes pleaded with me not to draw attention to it. As she talked to me, I slipped the notes into my pocket without looking at them.

  ‘So have you decided how long you’re going to stay?’ she asked.

  ‘I don’t really know. I’m in no hurry.’

  ‘Don’t you have someone waiting for you somewhere, or someone you should go to?’ she asked, smiling with adroit but passionless coquetry. Seduction was a habit with her. She turned that same smile on her customers, her friends, the waiters, even on Didier, whom she openly disliked—on everyone, in fact, including her lover, Modena. In the months and years that followed, I heard a lot of people criticise Ulla, some of them cruelly, for her flirtations. I didn’t agree with them. It seemed to me, as I got to know her well, that she flirted with the world because flirting was the only real kindness she ever knew or shared: it was her way of being nice, and of making sure that people—men—were nice to her. She believed that there wasn’t enough niceness in the world, and she said so, in exactly those words, more than once. It wasn’t deep feeling, and it wasn’t deep thinking, but it was right, as far as it went, and there was no real harm in it. And what the hell, she was a beautiful girl, and it was a very good smile.